


I'll Get Us a Cab

by elliotwritesgarbage



Series: sickfics [8]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Emetophilia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Motorcycles, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 03:38:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17973755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliotwritesgarbage/pseuds/elliotwritesgarbage
Summary: Tumblr ask:YOU WRITE FOR YURI ON ICE???? Could you perhaps fill the prompt with Otabek? This one: Just imagine: Otabek and Yuri riding on Otabek's motorcycle. Beka wasn't feeling very well, but thought he'd be fine and the feeling would pass. Wrong.





	I'll Get Us a Cab

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Tumblr April 2017.
> 
> (Original notes)  
> I felt so bad doing this to my boy! I hope it’s okay, I wrote this half on a plane while my friend slept on my shoulder, so if there are any mistakes, blame it on that. I had so much fun writing for Otabek. I rarely see fics about him. Come on people, let’s make him suffer. Enjoy!

Otabek knew his way around Almaty like the back of his hand. Having lived there since he was a kid, he was well-versed in every side street and back alley that there was, on account of his long hours exploring.

Yuri, on the other hand, knew nothing of Almaty, never having even visited the country. So who was Otabek to say no to a guided tour on his motorcycle? Recently, Otabek had begun to feel better about his birthplace. He had met people who had never heard of Kazakhstan, or worse, assumed it was part of Russia. He was the first skater from Kazakhstan to make it as far as he had, and he was determined to give a name to his country. 

Despite his newfound national pride, his stomach was churning in a way that had nothing to do with patriotism. Since the night before, when Yuri had arrived, he had been suffering from a near constant, cramping pain in his gut. Assuming it had been something he’d eaten, he’d ignored it, and focused on receiving his friend. Ignoring it was getting less and less realistic as they drove. His motorcycle usually created an irreplaceable feeling in Otabek’s stomach, that could be excitement or adrenaline, but today was painful and churning nausea. 

He had felt this way many times before, and usually it could be blamed on nerves, or hunger, or something else easily solved. This feeling, the nausea that started in his stomach and radiated through his esophagus was a frequent side-effect of car travel — why he very much preferred his motorcycle, thank you very much. Otabek felt as though he could feel the chunks he was swallowing back against his throat, and he grimaced. He turned his attention back to the road. He couldn’t hear Yuri’s surprised and appreciative gasps at the beautiful scenery, but he felt the small rib cage expanding and contracting against his back. Adding to Otabek’s discomfort, Yuri’s lanky arms were snaked around his waist, clamped down and holding tight. Otabek’s leather jacket, worn mostly for protection, was getting unbearably hot. A chill rolled down Otabek’s back. He felt clammy, sweaty, and stuck in traffic. He slowed the motorcycle for a red light, as Yuri yelled, “This is so cool!” over the quieting wind. 

Otabek wanted to respond. He wanted to give a brief history of the incredible tower over to their left. Instead, he let out a groaning gag. Yuri’s arms followed his muscles as they drew in tight, preparing to eject the small amount of food he’d eaten that day.

Yuri slowly pulled his hands away.

Otabek steeled his nerves. He was a world class figure skater, and he’d skated through worse. He swallowed heavily. He was fine. He tried to convince himself, but with a lowering morale, an increasingly wet mouth, and a small Russian boy squeezing his stomach, it was getting harder and harder to believe it. The light turned green, and they were off again.

‘‘Are you okay?’’ Yuri shouted over the wind roaring in their ears. Not trusting himself to open his mouth or take a hand off the bike, Otabek shook his head. Yuri’s arms were wrapped around his waist again. Otabek wished he’d go back to the way he held on when they first met, just holding the bike, or barely holding onto Otabek’s jacket. He would give up the world for the closeness he had with Yuri, but at the moment it was only making him sicker.

Another sick twinge. His stomach felt heavy in his abdomen. Involuntarily he went through a list of things he’d eaten in the past few days, just to see if there was anything usual. Of course, there wasn’t, and thinking about food had made him mouth salivate unappetizingly. He had a horrible mental image of puking on his bike, or worse, hitting something in an attempt to stop quickly. 

He made a desperate lane change, to the furthest right lane, and did his best to not skid to a stop. His stomach felt much worse as they were stopping. As the bike slowed, his stomach protested even more. He got up abruptly, stumbled off his motorcycle, and ambled quickly but clumsily over to the building by which he had stopped.

Yuri followed with a slightly angry, ‘‘What?’’ and Otabek felt bad. Yuri truly loved riding on Otabek’s motorcycle, and he was surely enjoying the sights of Almaty. Yuri stopped when he saw Otabek place a hand on the wall and hunch over, his other hand holding his sore stomach. Under his leather jacket, his strong back rolled.

He gagged loudly, a foreign sound coming from a usually reserved man. Yuri was instilled with a sharp sense of panic. He had never had to help anyone in this way before. Usually, it was him throwing up. Otabek gagged again. 

Yuri approached just in time to see a flood of thick, yellowish fluid pour from his mouth after another heaving retch. Cautiously, Yuri placed a hand on the warm leather jacket in front of him. For a few moments, Otabek stilled, breathing heavily with his mouth hanging open, before he retched again.

The splash echoed loudly off the pavement, and Yuri was glad his shoes weren’t in the line of fire. Otabek was not so lucky, however. The rapidly growing puddle of sick was beginning to infringe on his leather boots. Yuri was sure his still hand on Otabek’s back was doing less for Otabek’s comfort than his own, but he left it on.

He peeked at his friend’s face. Otabek’s eyes were screwed shut with pain. His skin had taken on a grey colour, except his cheeks, which seemed almost painfully red. His mouth still hung open, small chunks still hanging in the corners of his soft lips. He gagged a few more times, unsuccessfully, and decided to simply spit whatever was left in his mouth.

He straightened. Yuri wanted to ask if he was okay, but he knew the answer. What he really needed to ask was how they were going to get back to his place now. Otabek took out a package of cinnamon gum from his coat pocket, and put one in his mouth. He answered Yuri’s question before he had even asked it.

‘‘I’m sorry, Yura. I’ll get us a cab.’’


End file.
